


Afterimage

by howlyng



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Blood and Injury, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt Loki (Marvel), Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Memory Loss, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), SHIELD, people being ignorant of emergency medical procedures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-06 16:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17943497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howlyng/pseuds/howlyng
Summary: He wakes up by the side of a road, alone and nameless. The space left behind by his memories now hosts nothing but dreams filled with forgotten pains and a feeling that perhaps his past is a beast best left undisturbed. But despite everything, there is one thing he learns about himself early on; he is not one for caution.(Don't be intimidated by the oc tag, there's no slash. Tags will be updated on the go.)





	Afterimage

**Author's Note:**

> The last time I posted a fic online I was 14 so bear that in mind while reading, folks. I'll also be forever grateful to anyone who can tell me how to get a beta reader because boy, do I need one. Future chapters will likely be longer than this one. Without further ado - let's dive right into this dumpster fire!

Grey. Empty, heavy grey. The colour stretches across his vision, filling his world, his head devoid of thoughts. As his eyes explore the vastness they discover hints of muted blues hidden among the monochrome tones. He finds he likes the shade. The way it mingles with grey is soothing. A promise of home, although he doesn't know what that means for him. As if responding to the thought something buried deep disrupts the grey then, sending tendrils of ache stabbing into the calm, but as rapidly as it appeared it dissolves, leaving his mind blissfully blank once more.

 

For a while he simply stares. There is nothing but the grey, the blue, a perfect equilibrium. Then, a subtle flash of movement in his peripheral vision catches his attention. He twists his head to see, only to hear a sound (a cry) emerge from somewhere nearby (his throat) as pain shoots through his neck, his back, his entire body. First he feels nothing, then everything at once. It's unbearable. A million needles stab into him at once as his mind reunites with his body. His body, recently rediscovered, and making its presence painfully apparent. As the fire slowly subsides to a dull burn he becomes aware of a number things. He is gasping, chest heaving with shallow breaths that grate like sand in his throat. The movement rocks his torso. With each inhale and exhale searing pain flares in his spine, adding to the cacophony of a myriad of aches scattered around his body. He's suddenly not sure if there's a single spot in his body that doesn't feel like it's been mauled with a battering ram. (Where is he?)

 

His vision is limited, but with some effort he manages to move his head enough to reach an angle more suitable for observing his surroundings. He's lying on something cold - no, freezing, hard and lumpy, limbs sprawled like a broken puppet's. Tentatively he tests bending one arm at the elbow, only to give up early on as bone scrapes against bone and nausea twists his insides. The chill is rapidly seeping its way through his ragged clothing (scorched, stained with dark blood). How could he have been so oblivious to the numerous unpleasant sensations, the pain and the cold, just moments before? A gentle gust of wind tickles the exposed skin of his face as if to highlight it all. Above him the grey-blue sky that reminds him of home is flanked by the tops of tall spruces at the edges of his vision. He thinks it might be a shade darker than before. It's nightfall. (How did he get here?)

 

Something glides into his field of view. A wispy cloud, one edge faintly tinted pink by a sunset somewhere behind the trees. The intruder that violated his tranquility. He feels a sudden flash of hatred for the little cloud and squeezes his eyes firmly shut. At least he won't then have to watch it mockingly roll across his streak of sky, free while he lies here - immobile and without a name. And so tired. There's a heaviness to it, as if he were deep underground, a dozen feet worth of soil weighing down on him. He might believe it to be true if it weren't for the clear view of the sky. Perhaps if he lies very, very still the ground will fix the mismatch and swallow him. The thought feels right. Just.

 

-

 

He wakes up to a bright light and the sound of heavy footsteps. The stark contrast to the many hours of gradually darkening grey is overwhelming. Pain explodes his eyes and he groans, makes the mistake of attempting to evade the beam by turning his head and curses his stupidity as the groan turns into a high pitched whine. An embarrassing sound, he can tell, despite only being two thirds conscious. As an added bonus the light seems to be only increasing in intensity, artificial pale blue penetrating his eyelids. He wishes it'd go back where it came from. Let him be. Let him sleep.

 

The crunch of gravel is nearby now. It's loud, disproportionally so. The footsteps come to a halt right by his head and he holds his breath as every instinct screams _danger,_ ordering him to flee, to hide, to not let himself be caught vulnerable like this.

 

The rustling of clothes as the thing crouches, a hot breath on his face.

 

"...the fuck happened to you?"

 

A low voice, rough, but laced with... pity? None too gently a warm hand pats his cheek and a small, startled sound escapes his throat, his eyes snapping open of their own volition. A mistake. The source of the artificial light sways directly above him like a horrible miniature sun, held by a large hand whose owner is currently looming over him, cutting a void-black hole in the now murky sky. The only details he's able to discern before squeezing his eyes tightly shut again are a thick moustache, the glint of eyeglasses and caterpillar brows drawn together in a frown.

 

"L-ll... light, please, " Each syllable is like a sharp rock and his tongue feels too thick for his mouth, but the message seems to come across. A muttered apology follows and the dreadful glare is hurriedly redirected. Although his eyes are closed, he can feel the presence of the figure looming above. Rendered uneasy by the thought, he parts his eyes warily. The world is dark again and any view he might have had is obstructed by a flock of bright splotches swimming in his vision. After a moment of awkwardly observing him blink fervently in an attempt to dispel the ghost-light the figure seems to regain its composure enough to speak again.

 

"Should probably start from the basics, huh... What's your name, son? What happened? You hurt?"

 

 _Son._ He doesn't know why, but despite his humble position the word makes him grind his teeth. He is fairly certain he is not a child, nor is this person his father. For a brief moment he contemplates remaining quiet. Opening his mouth doesn't seem worth the effort. He is lost, no one, forgotten in the middle of nowhere. If this is not the natural order of things, why does it feel... _correct_? This is where he belongs. And yet... the voice of another living being eases some of a tightness around his chest he hadn't even realised was there in the first place. He craves to hear it again. The question. What did he ask again? Oh yes, his name. His name... A glance upwards reveals that the furrow between the bushy brows has deepened. A swifter answer was probably expected.

 

"I-" The word gets stuck on its way up and he clears his throat impatiently. "I don't... I don't know." Being aware of his situation is one thing, but putting it to words is entirely different. He makes a feeble effort to roll onto his side, anything to appear less wretched. A steady arm catches him as he fails pitifully and tumbles back with a hoarse yelp.

 

"Careful, son. You're not in a shape to be crawling about like that."

 

He affixes the man with the most threatening look one can muster while in a non-ideal position on the ground, helpless like a beetle stuck on its shell. The pressure on his arm disappears (he feels colder, suddenly) as the man raises his hands in surrender.

 

"Look, I'm sorry for touching your arm without a written permit, but I wanna help you. And I can't do that if you don't work with me. Got it?" he says. "I can't just leave you here. I mean, you don't remember your damn name! That's a case of amnesia if I've ever seen one."

 

Despite the creeping frustration, his words seem genuine. Besides - what has he got to lose?Perhaps the man kills him. So what? Something in him tells him he should care, should be wary of aid offered too readily, should value his life enough to assess the situation more thoroughly. He can't bring himself to pay attention to it.

For a moment, they just stare at each other. Then, slowly, so as not to move his neck any more than necessary, he nods. The man releases a sigh of relief.

 

"Thank fuck." To his displeasure he takes the answer as a permission to lean in again, far too close for comfort. "I tried to call an ambulance but the reception here is shit." He snorts disdainfully. "The government can pay their big fish enough to live in castles but can't afford to fill potholes or build cell towers. It's a joke. Anyway..." Arms move under him, searching for a steady grip. By the time his hazy mind realises what the man has in mind, it's already too late.

 

"...I'm just gonna have to take you to a hospital myself. There's one not too far from here and I'm not seeing any big wounds on you, so- shit, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-"

 

Pain blooms in his neck, his back, his head and he's released back onto the ground, prompted by his own, pitiful squeak.

 

"My neck, I don't-" he falters, struggling to force his mouth to form the words through the rather distracting sensation of being aflame. After a few more inarticulate sounds he determines it's not worth the effort. The man hovers over him, hands by his sides as if he's afraid that too close proximity will cause him to spontaneously explode.

 

"Shit, I should've asked you first... I- I know it doesn't do you much good now but I really am sorry." He trails off, the last words barely audible. "Fucking shit..."

 

He's right. The apology doesn't improve the situation in any way. But looking at the miserable face of his to-be-saviour, still muttering on, now more to himself than to the only other person in sight (the words 'hospital' and 'sorry' make multiple appearances) his anger dissipates in the way of tame irritation.

 

"It's... fine. Just please- please refrain from doing it again."

 

The alarmed crease of his forehead smooths, if only marginally. "I won't, don't worry." The man is silent for a couple of seconds before bringing his hands together in a determined slap. He jumps. "There's a platform cart in my truck I've been keeping around. I say we work with that, or what do you think?"

 

-

 

Within the next ten minutes he discovers two things. One: "platform cart" is a very descriptive name for the contraption that emerges from the garishly coloured truck that he, now that he's not focused on a stranger potentially murdering him at his most vulnerable, can see parked at the side of the road. Two: transportation by the means of said cart overwhelmingly wins the title of the worst four minutes of his life. Granted, his life only spans about six hours so far, but that isn't the point.

 

Miraculously, after dozens of apologies, grunts and enough misery for the two of them to share he's lying in the truck on a back seat currently functioning as a mattress, secured in place with sturdy, orange bands ("Ratchet straps! Good for anythin'.") and faintly vomit-scented pillows surrounding his neck. He estimates there's a high chance he looks ridiculous.

His saviour checks the straps one more time before slumping onto the driver's seat, yanking the door shut behind him with redundant force and starting the car with the comfortable ease of someone who has done this countless times before.

The stage of his life up until now slides out of view. There aren't many certainties in his life at the moment but the fact that he won't miss this place is one of them. He drifts off again, oblivion wrapping around him like the musty pillows encircling his head when a loud curse jerks him back to consciousness.

 

"Hell, son. I never introduced myself, did I? I'm Jeffrey. Brown. Jeffrey Brown."

**Author's Note:**

> Medical PSA: If you ever have the misfortune of being in a situation in which someone's experienced a serious spinal injury, do not move them. The best you can do is call an ambulance, keep them as still as you can and support their neck with anything available. The only reason Loki here didn't end up paralysed or dead after getting tossed around like that is that he's a literal god. So unless your patient isn't essentially indestructable don't try to bridal carry them to your truck.


End file.
